Without You
by Diana's Helper
Summary: Warning: Spoilers for the most recent season. Wilson and his sadness, what will House and the rest of the PPTH staff do? Rated for future language.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own House, MD, that is owned by Fox (I think). Nor do I own Wilson. Sadly. :  
**

Dr. James Wilson never got what he really wanted.

The whole hospital knew it. He hadn't gotten the job he wanted; the place he had originally applied for turned him down. He hadn't gotten the best friend that he wanted; House could barely be called a "friend" at all. And when he had finally fallen in love, he hadn't been able to have her either. Amber was gone now, leaving James Wilson alone, once again. He had never really expected a "happily ever after" or anything, but the engagement ring he had in his jacket still spoke otherwise. He loved her. He wanted to marry her. It was no lie to say that he had been down the marriage block before – his ex-wives were evidence of that. But with Amber, it had been so different. There was a spark, a fire, something he never got bored of.

James Wilson always got bored.

That spark had died, and he wanted to hate House. Wanted to loathe him with every fiber of his being, kill him, show him how much he had hurt him by taking away the most beautiful thing in his life. Maybe if House had remembered quicker, there would have been time to save her! Maybe – but there was no maybe's left for him to give. He knew. There was no cure. She was going to die, and when it came down to it, he had appreciated that she died in his arms, with him, after so many hours of kissing and talking, loving each other and promising that everything would be okay.

Things no longer seemed like they would ever be okay.

* * *

"James?"

A female tone with the subtle hint of authority and sadness broke the silence and darkness of his office. The last place he had left, the place where he could be alone.

He did not answer, preffering to stay silent in the face of his boss, knowing that his work had been less than up to par lately. He could not leave, couldn't bear to go home to his empty apartment, the apartment he had once shared with her. Her note was tucked away in his pocket, and was well worn from frequent readings. It had smelled like her, once, the clean scent of cotton and lavender, but now it was just dirty, and that was another fault. He could not forgive himself for not preserving the last bit of her he had.

"James, you have to come out of your office. Please. We're all worried about you."

The voice intruded on his thoughts again, and from his position in the desk chair, he squinted over to the door, where the light was coming from. Come out? Was she crazy? House had woken up with no ill effects, and was waltzing around; Wilson knew he couldn't face him. Not after …

A flashback struck his mind, and he flinched.

"I'm fine, Dr. Cuddy."

He wasn't fine. He never called her "Doctor Cuddy". Just Cuddy, he was like House in that respect. The woman in the doorway looked taken aback, and frowned slightly, almost as though she was going to say something else, and then just looked sad. Of course she looked sad- everyone was sad. Hell, Cameron and Foreman had barely known Amber, and they were sad. Thirteen, as House had dubbed the woman, looked like a ghost now, and was said to be mugging around acting as though she was about to walk into a wall. The hospital was in shock, and so was Wilson.

"I'm turning the light on, at least do that."

Cuddy was always true to her word, so true. The blinding fluorescent made him flinch again and blink a couple times, and he turned around to look at the picture of Amber he had on his desk, rubbing the glass as though he could touch her again, feel her with him. There was nothing there, not anymore, and Wilson was afraid; so afraid. The moment he forgot to think about her, the moment she would truly be gone, and he could not allow that to happen. She would live, even if only in his memory, and it would consume him, though he didn't care. He had no life, not without her.

A knock on the door.

Why was everyone bothering him today?


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own House, MD. Other people do. :)

Second chapter, everyone!! Thanks for reading, sorry about the shortness/lateness of this.

* * *

House rapped on Wilson's door, not in the mood for waiting, but knowing that if he barged in, it wouldn't be appreciated

House rapped on Wilson's door, not in the mood for waiting, but knowing that if he barged in, it wouldn't be appreciated. He was slower than usual now; movements were measured and careful and when speaking he answered a little slower than usual. There was a slight slur to his speech as well, something he fought against every day with voice therapy, just to give the illusion that he was doing all right after his injuries. Who couldn't blame him? For years he had been the "strong, witty, frightening Doctor House," and now he was weaker than ever before. For a few weeks, he had been in a wheel chair, for gods sakes! No one knew how much this was killing him more than he did, and while he hadn't touched a bottle of vodka since getting out of the hospital, he'd been through half of his stash of Vicodin.

"Wilson, I-I know you're in there," he growled slowly, flinching at the stutter on the word "I". Goddammit. Even thinking about the sentence going smoothly and imagining it (as per the therapist's orders) didn't get rid of the impediment that he had now. Though, to a mind who did not want to see something wrong with him, it was very possible that he would appear unchanged by the ordeal, despite what the medical record said.

They hadn't spoken in weeks. No one could blame them. Wilson had lost her, the woman who meant more to him than anyone else, and House had lost … well, no one could put a finger on what he'd lost by the whole thing, but there was something haunting him. Feelings for Amber? No one was daring enough to broach the subject, least of all House himself. She had almost ended up working for him, and he told himself night after night that had it been any other intern, he wouldn't have cared. But this … this felt like his fault. He had been too drunk to get home, he had called Wilson and made her go out that night. He could have been the one who died in the bus crash, not her. She would have been safe.

How God was punishing them was nothing compared to how House was punishing himself.

There were sounds of movement coming from behind the door, and he leaned on his cane pensively, waiting for it to open so that he could lay eyes on his best friend. Gregory House knew how lucky he was that Wilson was even responding; few others had been allowed into his office, which he basically lived in by now. Slowly, the door slid open, and Greg stared, before meeting the brown eyes of a very exasperated looking Wilson.

"What, House?" He snapped, peering out of the crack, not offering to invite him in or anything.

"I wanted to talk to you," House was careful to keep his voice even.

"Yeah, well I don't want to talk to you." The reply was almost rushed, which was definitely not like Wilson. He was always calm, right?

"… Wilson, are you okay?"

Anger flared in the other mans eyes. That had been a mistake. Obviously, he wanted to deal with it alone, and wasn't even really paying attention to the question (which was quite out of character considering House's usual prickly temperament. To even notice how someone else was feeling was even more unusual, but under the circumstances . . . certain things could be allowed.

"I don't need you. Look what you have done!" He hissed, slamming the door in his face, and House leaned on his cane.

That had gone rather well, right?

Staring at the door, he shook his head, and whispered something to the closed door, before walking away, leaning heavily and shivering with exhaustion. He needed to get back to his apartment, or to a hospital room somewhere. This had been too much, too fast, for House.


End file.
